


never wanted to live like loneliness

by elithewho



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Ambiguity, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Drunkenness, Dubious Consent, M/M, Masturbation, Mentor/Protégé, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 02:29:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12122571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elithewho/pseuds/elithewho
Summary: Percival Graves, the youngest trainee auror at MACUSA in the year of 1904, and the close bond he forms with his mentor.





	never wanted to live like loneliness

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot be more grateful to Morgan for her thoughtful critiques and editing, she made this fic so much better. All for you, bb.
> 
> I like to imagine McBride looks like Gabriel Byrne circa 1999, just for reference. 
> 
> Title is from "Oblivion," by Darshana Suresh, the idea for it is from Morgan.

Percival got a job offer at MACUSA three months before he graduated Ilvermorny. He'd taken his exams early and applied for the earliest possible application deadline. Dropping out and immediately entering the auror training program had been an option, but he wanted his diploma. Not that he attended graduation. His professor had urged him to, since his academics were so stellar, but he declined. He'd rather not go up on stage to the polite, scattered applause and know that no one was personally cheering for him. 

With his father dead at the beginning of his last year, Percival had no more family. His mother had died when he was 14 and that had barely affected him. He knew he should feel sad about his parents being dead – that was the normal reaction. But he felt... not much. He'd always tried so hard in school, been the top of every class, but his father hadn't cared at all. He looked at his only son with annoyance if anything at all. Like Percival was a pet dog with a habit of chewing on the curtains. 

All his hard-won achievements would be for himself and not anyone else. He was the youngest member of the cohort of 1904; that was something to be proud of. The training program for aurors was rigorous and challenging, and many trainees spent years working professionally before applying. Not him.

On his first day, Percival put on a new set of charcoal gray dress robes, combed his hair and spent several long minutes staring himself down in the mirror.

"You look perfect, dear," his mirror said gently. "Very professional."

Percival didn't respond, but instead picked at non-existent dust on his collar and adjusted his tie yet again. He didn't want to be nervous. The youngest auror-in-training shouldn't be nervous, he should be confident and self-assured. If he told himself that enough times, maybe it would come true.

He apparated to the Woolworth Building in Manhattan and entered MACUSA, nerves mounting. It wasn't his first time there, of course – he'd been by just a week or two ago for his wand permit – but it felt different as an official employee. Witches and wizards surged up and down the stairs, hurrying around in groups or solo. Doing important work, he imagined.

"Visiting your parents, are ya, boy?" wheezed the house elf working the elevator. "Shouldn't you be in class?"

"No, I'm a trainee auror," Percival responded.

The old elf gave him a doubting look and Percival adjusted his tie again.

The rest of his cohort were gathered in a large, bare room, milling around and taking excitedly amongst themselves. Percival stepped into the room; immediately sweat popped out on his forehead. They were all significantly older than him. And taller. The men, at least, seemed to tower over Percival. Even the women, dressed sharply in heels, looked like giants.

He schooled his face into the dour, stern expression that had worked to repel most people when he was at school. A few of the group threw him curious looks and he crossed his arms, trying not to make eye contact.

Presently, a group of even older witches and wizards filed in. Surely the aurors who would train them.

"Good morning," bellowed a craggy old wizard, and the chattering group fell silent. "Welcome to MACUSA..."

Auror Bellsprocket, director of magical security, introduced himself and then his fellow aurors. Percival paid careful attention, hoping to never embarrass himself and have to ask for a superior's name after the formal introduction. They were taken through what their training would look like: dueling, defensive magic, identifying the dark arts, potions, field healing, athletics.

"Yes, athletics," the old auror hollered. "You may not always have your wand to depend on. Every auror I've ever worked with has had to pursue a suspect on foot, and it doesn't help to be short of breath and wheezing the whole time..."

The other aurors tittered, but Percival remained silent. Since the age of five, he'd planned on becoming an auror, but the necessity of physical fitness had somehow escaped him. While at Ilvermorny he'd taken private dueling lessons with a rather paunchy instructor who hadn't once mentioned the possibility of foot chases. Sure, Ilvermorny had a gym, but it was used mostly by Quidditch players who wanted to stay fit. Not wannabe aurors.

Percival glanced around at his fellow trainees. At least he wasn't the only one who looked nervous.

"I won't expect all of you to graduate the program," Bellsprocket growled. "In fact, I see a few familiar faces today. I hope those of you re-applying find yourself improved from the last time you were here. And I hope all of you will find success."

The man's deep frown and narrowed eyes did not convey sincerity in that sentiment; the tension in the group of trainees ratcheted up as backs straightened and feet shuffled. The warnings did not particularly rattle him. Already steeling himself for the difficulties of training, he was determined to complete it no matter how trying it became. A challenge didn't scare him.

The trainees were then given a tour of MACUSA as the instructors talked with them in smaller groups to get to know them better. Percival joined a group surrounding Auror McBride, a veteran of the force of some 20 years.

"I think you'll find this program more challenging than what you anticipated," McBride told the trainees surrounding him. Despite having been in America for decades, his voice still held light traces of an Irish accent.

Percival responded to that warning with a firm nod, brow furrowed, mouth set.

McBride looked at him, a small smile hovering over his lips. "Graves," he mused. "Gareth's son?"

Percival nodded. "You knew my father?"

"Aye, but not well. You look like him."

Percival only nodded again. He didn't find that especially complimentary.

After the group had dispersed and the trainees were sent home for the day so they could rest properly for the first official day of training, McBride caught Percival by the arm. "How old are you, boy?" he asked.

"18, " Percival said with a touch of defensiveness and an automatic frown. When would people stop questioning his age? That day couldn't come soon enough.

"You only just graduated then? That's impressive."

"I'm not intimidated by the challenge, sir," Percival said firmly, and McBride chuckled.

"You should be. Everyone here should be. I was."

Percival continued to frown. "I was top of my class. I completed all my exams early, too."

"That only means so much in the field, son."

Percival knew he was being rude, not using a tone appropriate for addressing his direct superior, but he couldn't help himself. "I'm not your son, or anyone else's."

McBride's face creased in concern. He had very blue eyes. "I was sorry to hear about your father," he said gently.

"You're the only one then," Percival muttered, and departed with only a sharp nod.

 

The next day, Percival rose at four in the morning and dressed in the loose clothing he'd need for athletic training. His mirror only mumbled sleepily at him while Percival combed his hair out of habit. He did hate to look disheveled.

When he arrived at MACUSA, the building much quieter in the early day, the rest of his group looked tired but determined. As they chatted to each other, Percival stood by himself, doing his best to stretch the way he remembered seeing Quidditch players do before a game. 

Their athletics trainer, Auror Thorn, was a burly, gray-haired witch with a whistle around her neck. She blew on it fiercely, causing the group to perk up at once. She corralled them into straight lines and then had them run laps around the training room.

Round and round they went, and as Thorn kept drilling them, a few trainees dropped out of formation, panting and bent double. Percival's lungs were on fire, sweat pouring off his body, legs aching, but he didn't allow himself to stop. The laps did not let up, and more and more people dropped out. Percival could feel a cramp forming in his side, painful as a knife being driven into his ribs, but he couldn't falter. Others in the group still running were overtaking him; his arms and legs were like toothpicks compared to their brawnier limbs, but he willed them to keep pumping nonetheless.

Soon, bright spots of color were exploding in his vision. Dizzy as he was, he couldn't stop, he had to keep going. One moment he was plowing on ahead toward the group of runners still racing ahead without him, and the next he was staring up at the ceiling.

"You still with us, kid?"

Percival saw faces above him, blurred and indistinct. Groggy, as though he'd just woken up from the deepest sleep, he tried to sit up and failed. Blinking, he shook his head in an effort to clear his vision, but that made his lightheadedness worse.

"Reeves, get the healer," Thorn said to another trainee.

"I'm fine," Percival managed, suddenly furious at himself. "I just – I just need water."

Thorn summoned a glass with her wand, and as Percival sipped at it slowly, she said, "Don't ever push yourself that hard again."

At her angry tone, Percival flushed as humiliation crept up his spine. Not only had he failed to keep up, he'd made himself look bad in front of his instructor as well.

"Up you get," Thorn muttered sternly when the glass was empty, clapping him on the shoulder.

Percival struggled to his feet, still rather dizzy. His legs wobbled, his elbow and knee throbbed, likely from falling on them.

Thorn gave the entire group a lecture on knowing their limits and not exceeding them, how a show-off would get themselves killed in the field. Percival's face burned bright red and he carefully didn't look at anyone. Thorn then addressed the trainees who had stopped running and told them they needed to shape up or get left behind. Scolding complete, she dismissed them all to the showers.

Percival was still filled with self-hatred as he followed the rest of the men into the shower rooms while the witches went off to their own area. 

"Don't feel too bad," Reeves said with a sympathetic smile. "I felt like I was gonna pass out too."

Percival only frowned in response. He wasn't looking for pity.

Feeling as badly as he did in that moment, Percival was especially alarmed by the prospect of showering with a group of virtual strangers. He lagged behind, suddenly spooked by the idea of stripping down in front of so many strapping men.

The rest of them didn't seem bothered in the slightest. They hooted and hollered, stripping off their sweaty clothes and yelling boisterously to each other, recounting their disastrous run times. Percival began to undress slowly, hands fumbling on the buttons. He couldn't stop his eyes from lingering on all the naked chests that came into view, the thick, hairy thighs, the bare penises.

He'd shared a room with a group of boys at Ilvermorny of course, but over the years he'd developed a system where he could change in private and never be seen naked by anyone, giving his roommates their privacy in turn. 

Turning bright red, Graves kept himself hidden among the lockers as the other men headed for the showers. Feeling like an outsider was not a new experience, but he still resented it. He looked down at his own body. Pale with a smattering of dark hair, still so scrawny in comparison to the other men with their defined and firm muscles.

His mother, being so strongly and stringently Catholic, had instilled a deep shame concerning nakedness in him. She'd walked in on him getting ready for a bath once, as his personal privacy was never something she'd much respected, and when she'd seen the hair beginning to form at the onset of puberty, she'd tutted in disgust. "Cover yourself, Percival. It's revolting."

Once the rest of the trainees had finished showering, Percival seized the opportunity and dashed in to where the shower stalls stood in rows. The others were getting dressed now and Percival took his time standing under the hot spray so he could redress himself in privacy.

Afterwards, they were given breakfast as it was still quite early, and then more training. Finally: a more academic setting. He didn't feel quite so out of place and inferior while brewing potions or practicing defensive spells. His instructors even seemed impressed; the day was looking up.

"Your wand work is impressive," Auror McBride told him after the dueling class, which had mostly been about the basics. "How is your wandless magic?"

Percival furrowed his brow and summoned a training manual wordlessly, wand still tucked in his trouser pocket.

McBride gave him a nod of encouragement. "That's very good," he said, and a warm swell of pride filled Percival's chest. "Now let's see that refined for combat."

Days turned into weeks. Determined to make a better showing for Auror Thorn, Percival allowed himself to stop jogging when he felt his body give up. She put them through their paces with stretches, squats, and lunges soon added to the routine. While he was extremely tired and sore by the end of each session, Percival didn't allow that to negatively affect his performance in the rest of the training. Some of the trainees seemed frustrated and overwhelmed by the high expectations that the instructors had for them, but Percival appreciated how they never seemed to be satisfied. He had never felt perfect satisfaction in his own accomplishments, always wanting to push himself further, and he relished a program that didn't foster complacency. 

On Friday nights, the rest of the cohort would go out to local pubs in order to get drunk and presumably socialize. They'd invited him along at first, but Percival preferred to use that time to train more. He ran laps in the gym, and practiced dueling moves on the training dummies. 

"Bit late to be training, don't you think?"

Percival, immersed in his practice, nearly jumped out of his skin.

McBride was standing in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame. "Your stance is a little wobbly."

Percival glanced at his feet and flushed deeply red. He hadn't thought he was being watched. "Sorry, sir," he said automatically, as though they were in class.

McBride, ready for the end of the week, had loosened his tie, jacket gone. He took out his wand and rolled up his sleeves. "Try again," he said, falling into a dueling stance.

Percival wiped sweat from his forehead and complied. They spared back and forth for some time, McBride critiquing every step. Percival was tired to his bones. He'd woken at his usual four AM and pushed himself hard in training that morning, then again after the evening meal. He paused, wincing, after McBride managed to hit him with a stinging spell. Bent double, he panted, sweat dampening his shirt. 

He didn't expect McBride to grab him by the arm and slam him onto the ground. Percival could only gasp weakly, the wind knocked out of him as his wand went skittering away across the floor. McBride had twisted his arm around his back, pinning him with his knee.

"If this happened in the field, you'd be dead," McBride told him calmly, and Percival could only wheeze in response, struggling weakly. "Where's that wandless magic?"

Percival tried, he really did. But he was so exhausted and caught off guard that it wouldn't come. His arm throbbed; he tried to twist out of the man's powerful grip to no avail. McBride sighed and let him go. Percival scrambled to his feet, dashing for his wand.

"Stop, it’s fine."

He needed to grab the wall for support, mind spinning.

"I was just trying to make a point," McBride said carefully. "I think you're the best duelist in the class, but there's always..."

"Room for improvement, I know," Percival finished for him when he managed to catch his breath, straightening. 

McBride offered him a warm smile, which for some stupid reason set Percival to blushing. 

"That's more than enough for today," McBride muttered, pocketing his wand. "Let's get a drink on me."

"Sure," Percival said, mopping sweat from his forehead.

"But a shower first, I think."

Percival nodded, knowing he must smell pretty ripe. It was far more comfortable being alone in the shower room and he relished the hot water on his aching muscles, staying under the spray longer than he usually would have. He emerged feeling better, skin bright pink and shining with wetness. He was clad only in a towel when he walked out to the changing area and found McBride on one of the benches.

Percival stopped short, clutching the damp towel to his waist.

"Thought you drowned in there," he said with a grin, blue eyes crinkling.

Heat crawled up his face, still flushed from the hot shower. He tried to smile back, to not seem like he was uncomfortable. He wanted McBride to see him as a peer, a fellow auror, and not a nervous kid, a stuttering, immature student.

"It’s been a long week," he muttered, grabbing his change of clothes. He let the towel drop, ignoring how McBride seemed to be staring at him. He could almost feel the other man's eyes on his skin. Senses prickling, he dressed as quickly as he could. 

"Don't worry, I know a place where the other trainees won't be," McBride said when he was ready, clapping Percival on the shoulder. Percival was inwardly grateful that they wouldn't be running into them.

They arrived by side-along apparition at an old-fashioned, grubby-looking pub, a weather-beaten sign bearing "McCool's" swinging over the door. Inside, patrons and the bartender alike greeted McBride as an old friend. The low candlelight and cramped interior gave the place a claustrophobic, womb-like feel. McBride secured them a table by the fireplace where a dim, magical green fire burned. When he returned from the bar, it was with tall mugs of stout.

"Cheers," he muttered, and Percival raised his glass as well before taking a deep drink. He wasn't all that used to drinking, especially something so strong, but he managed to swallow it all without wincing. 

"Like I said, I think you're very talented. I can see why MACUSA wanted you so bad."

Percival accepted that compliment with a small nod, his cheeks reddening in the low light. "That means a lot coming from you, sir," he said.

"You'll make a fine auror. However..." He trailed off, studying Percival's face.

Percival readied himself for the criticism. He only wanted to improve himself.

"The other instructors and I couldn’t help but notice how... distant you are from the other trainees." While Percival's face fell at his words, McBride continued, "Forming bonds with your fellow aurors is important to the job, you know."

"Oh," was all Percival could think to say. He hadn't expected any of that. Unable to keep contact with those bright blue eyes, he looked into the foamy surface of his beer.

He knew the rest of his cohort got along as friends, brothers and sisters in arms as it were. But Percival couldn't feel that same sort of bond with them. He'd never had friends at school; when his family wealth and status had failed to distance him from his peers, his shyness early on in life had finished the job. To his father's grumbling disapproval, he'd opted to focus on academics rather than socializing, which to Percival's mind had only been an unwanted distraction. The very concept of mingling and fostering bonds with his peers was like hearing a language he had never learned. Everyone else seemed able to speak it fluently, while he'd been left totally mute.

"I know your father could be... difficult."

Percival frowned deeper, disliking the train of this conversation. "He doesn't have anything to do with this," he insisted.

"Fair enough," McBride said. "Now, I can't exactly order you to make friends, but I will say it would benefit you tremendously to... make an effort."

"I understand," Percival said, heart plummeting at the prospect. He took another few sips of his drink as silence fell between them.

"You can't do this job with no one in your life," McBride said after a long stretch of quiet drinking. He was worrying the gold band on his ring finger as he spoke. "My wife – she passed years ago."

"I'm sorry, sir," Percival muttered awkwardly.

"It’s alright, son," McBride said with a warm smile. "I'm only trying to say, it’s been difficult at times, and I've relied on the camaraderie between me and my colleagues over the years."

Percival nodded, feeling rather empty and bereft. For want of anything else to do in the awkward feeling that had sprung between them, he drank. Soon his mug was empty, and he felt vaguely warm and lightheaded.

"I'll get us another," McBride said, signaling the bartender.

More drinks arrived for which Percival was grateful. It was getting easier to drink the dark beer as he got used to the taste. Two became three and then four and Percival was feeling rather drunk indeed.

"I think that's enough for you, boy," McBride said, sounding amused as he supported Percival, who was listing to the side. "Let's get you home."

"I really want – I really really want to be the best, sir," Percival slurred, the words pouring out of him unbidden.

"I know you do, son."

Percival stumbled out onto the street, needing McBride to steady him. The world tilted back and forth, and a wave of nausea come on so suddenly that Percival could not stop the rise of bile of his throat.

"Oh dear," McBride muttered as Percival vomited profusely on the sidewalk.

As he expelled everything in his stomach, heaving until nothing came out, his ribs aching from the strain, humiliation crept in. He felt ridiculously young and inexperienced as McBride rubbed his back.

"I'll take you back to mine," McBride said soothingly, and Percival was too sick to protest.

They apparated into a rather nice apartment, stacks of books surrounding leather armchairs and bookcases, high ceilings giving the crowded space more breathing room. Percival immediately sank into the nearest armchair, head spinning as he took in his surroundings. His own apartment, perhaps even more expensive and fine than McBride's, was much more bare. He had lots of books, of course. Plucking a bronze selkie paperweight from a side table, he realized how few things he had as he regarded it blearily.

"Here," McBride said, wandlessly summoning a cold glass of water and replacing the paperweight in Percival's hand with it.

Percival drank gratefully, washing away the foul taste of vomit.

"Tea is needed," McBride said, disappearing into what must have been the kitchen.

Ordinarily, Percival would have loved to poke around, explore, read every book on the shelves and scattered across the floor. But all he could do was lay back and wish his head would stop pounding.

He had begun to doze when McBride's presence woke him again, and Percival peered out through slit lids as the man poured him a cup of steaming tea. 

"This will help," he insisted as Percival took the offered cup in shaking hands. He took a small sip, tasting more than just tea leaves.

"Feverfew. Fennel. Licorice root," he recited as though he were in potions class.

"Very good," McBride said with a wide smile. "It'll help the headache."

Percival quaffed it down even as the water scalded his tongue. He wasn't much for conversation, and was grateful that McBride was content to sit in silence and let him finish his tea.

"Sleep now," he said when Percival had drained his cup. "You can stay here."

Percival was too tired to protest. McBride led him to a dark bedroom, lighting a few dim lamps with a wave of his hand. Percival tried to take off his shirt but couldn't manage the buttons, and soon stopped fighting with it. He'd expected McBride to leave him to sleep, but instead the man reached for Percival's white shirt and helped him pull it over his head.

Bare to the waist, Percival thought back to earlier that evening, to how McBride watched him get dressed. A flush traveled down his neck and chest, eyes cast downward as McBride started on his belt, apparently unconcerned. He plucked open the buttons on his trousers, fingers brushing the bare skin of Percival's abdomen. The skin tingled wherever he touched.

Stripped down to his underwear, Percival collapsed on the bed. He was feeling less nauseous and achy, but the room still spun off-kilter as he looked up at the ceiling. The room went dark as McBride extinguished the lamps and Percival turned over, scrunched up like an inchworm. 

"Percival," he heard muttered in the darkness, and he turned to look at McBride still looming above him.

"Huh?" he mumbled thickly.

Then McBride was in bed with him, cuddling him close. Hands slid down his chest, tickling the coarse hair that grew there. Percival blinked rapidly. The darkness was almost complete, but he could just make out the shape of McBride next to him, very close.

"Shhh," the man whispered, seeming to nudge toward him, closing the gap between them. 

Percival's skin felt feverish, too tight for all his bones. McBride's calloused fingers felt strangely good, tickling as they skimmed his sides. Percival squirmed, letting out a breathy gasp as McBride held him in a close embrace. 

"What – what are you doing," Percival muttered. His brain seemed stuck like an ungreased wheel.

He'd never been this close to another person. He'd never before kissed anyone and now McBride pressed his face to his neck, mouthing a wet kiss against his throat. Percival choked out a gasp as the heat on his skin seemed to spread. Just then McBride's hand dropped lower, teasing the wiry hairs that led from his belly button to his crotch. Percival bucked on instinct, trying to twist away. McBride's embrace, holding him close, was too strong to break away from. 

His rough hand closed around Percival's prick, which was already half-hard. Percival grunted at the feeling, body going stiff in an instant. McBride continued to kiss his neck, gentle at first and then harder, teeth scraping the delicate skin. All the while his hand moved, stroking Percival's hardening cock as he groaned and twisted. He'd never experienced anything like it before; he couldn't stop his hips rocking up into that roughened hand, the sensitive head just slick enough not to catch.

He'd been gripped with such lust powerfully in his youth, struggling through the onset of puberty. In church he'd been taught it was a terrible sin to self-abuse, and he always felt the worst shame whenever he gave in. On a good day he'd only sought relief in private once or twice, but the desire had always been maddening, consuming him to the point where he couldn't get anything done until it abated. Seeing girls all around him, trying to show off as much leg as they could without getting disciplined, unbuttoning their blouses to expose their breast bones, had been a torment.

He had no idea why thoughts of girls rose up in his mind as McBride roughly stroked his cock. Maybe because of what they'd inspired: secret trysts with himself in the restroom, backed up against the door with a hand down his pants, biting on a knuckle as he panted.

"That's it, my boy," McBride muttered thickly, and Percival grunted, hips snapping upward. "You're so good, son."

His hands gripped the sheets fitfully, broken moans stuttering forth as McBride's teeth dragged hard against his throat, all but biting him. That word echoed in his head, _son,_ and with McBride's hand sliding over his cock head he was coming, groaning wordlessly as his hips thrust in a wild rhythm. McBride was practically lying on top of him, pinning him to the mattress as he came down from the crest of his orgasm. He was left panting, delirious and confused.

McBride kissed the side of his face, hand smoothing his sweat-dampened hair. Percival felt drained, head throbbing anew as McBride petted him. It was nice, comforting, like he was being soothed to sleep. It was easy just to let sleep overwhelm him. The darkness closed in.

 

Percival woke again to sunlight streaming through the window. It took him a few moments to remember where he was. His throat was raw, head pounding. Most importantly, he was alone. Distantly, he remembered the night before. Sparring with McBride, drinking too much, going back to his apartment. And then... had he dreamed the rest of it? McBride in bed with him. Percival held his head, the memory welling up like a soap bubble inside him.

Stumbling out of bed, he found his clothes helpfully folded for him on a nearby chair. He dressed clumsily, limbs very stiff and uncooperative. McBride didn't seem to be home. The apartment was still and silent save for an orange cat who appeared to glare at him disapprovingly and then ran off when Percival got close. He managed to locate a bathroom and gulped as much water as he could, splashing it on his hot face and letting it run down his collar. He looked up, seeing his reflection for the first time that morning. 

So it wasn't all a dream, he thought, face reddening. Purple bruises on his throat and jaw, right where he remembered McBride... nibbling him. He felt strange. It was wrong, for a lot of reasons, but it hadn't felt wrong. Not entirely. 

Swallowing thickly, Percival went back to the living room. The man had so many possessions. A piano draped in white lace, oil paintings on every wall, a mantle overflowing with framed photographs. A globe in one corner, an easel with a half-finished portrait of the orange cat.

Percival had never had many personal possessions as a child. His parents bought him the best clothes money could buy – as he was a reflection of their good name, he needed to look his best. But he didn't get birthday presents. Or Christmas presents. Or "just because" presents. His parents liked to travel but they never brought him with them. They went to Rome and Paris and Egypt, but said he would only get under foot and wasn't welcome on these trips, and he never received souvenirs the likes of which McBride had scattered about. As he got older, they said the trips would distract from his studies. As did everything else fun, like music or drawing or any book that wasn't academic in nature. While he heard tales of lavish Christmas parties from his classmates, feasts and mountains of presents, Percival spent his childhood Christmases alone. His parents would be traveling and he'd be alone with the house elves, meant to keep his nose to the grindstone.

Frowning at the memories, Percival noticed there was a note on the coffee table addressed to him.

_Graves –_  
_I'll be out all day. Business to attend to. Help yourself to some breakfast.  
_ _–M_

Percival felt strangely disappointed yet relieved he wouldn't have to face him yet. He didn't think he could stomach breakfast just yet, so he apparated home. 

He picked up a book he had been studying from recently and tried to do some reading, but his mind was spinning too furiously for him to focus. Instead, he fell face-first on his bed, not bothering to get undressed. 

Mournfully, he thought of his closest brush with romance. A year before graduation, he'd been studying in the library and a younger girl had approached him, blushing and nervous. 

"Hi," she said, and Percival had only stared at her in confusion, not understanding why she was talking to him. "Do you – do you want to go to the ball with me?"

Percival had blinked rapidly, more confused than ever. The annual winter ball had been approaching, but Percival had never gone, alone or with anyone. 

"I – I have to study," he had mumbled without thinking, his face flushing.

"Oh," the girl had said, looking confused and even a little hurt. "Bye, then." She'd hurried off. There was a gaggle of girls standing close by, and as the girl ran up to them they all glared at Percival in undisguised anger. Humiliated, Percival had looked away.

He was eighteen years old and he'd never been with anyone. He'd never held a hand or kissed or... well, he'd done something now. Although all he'd really done was lie there. But it had been better than anything he'd ever managed on his own. The fact that it had been McBride, his superior and instructor, a man he admired… it was incredibly strange. Strange and incredibly arousing. Percival couldn't get his head around it.

All weekend, he tried to get some work done, independent study and research and practicing techniques for when training started up again on Monday. But he was very distracted, his thoughts constantly whirling around how he'd see McBride on Monday. He didn't know how to act or what to say. As for the bruises on his throat, Percival treated them with a salve he'd been practicing for the field, and was pleased that they faded to almost nothing. He didn't want to imagine the humiliation of letting everyone see what he'd been up to that weekend.

It felt like the very first day of training all over again when he arrived at MACUSA on Monday morning; he feared that he'd sweat through his shirt before athletic training even began. But it felt good to just run and train without thinking too hard. Simply moving his body and not letting his thoughts overwhelm him. 

Dueling lessons were after breakfast, and Percival had such a knot in his stomach that he could barely eat. More nervous than ever, he filed into the training room with his fellow trainees. As Auror Bellsprocket had predicted on the very first day, a number of trainees had dropped out. Percival felt very exposed standing among those left.

"Good morning. Let's get started," McBride said, seeming calm and not remotely ill at ease.

Percival, meanwhile, felt like only he could remember what had happened that weekend and nothing at all about his studies. McBride was acting so normally that Percival began to wonder if it had really happened at all. He scratched at his neck and discovered that, while the bruises had faded, the skin was still tender. He caught McBride's eye across the room and had to look away, blushing.

When the lesson concluded, Percival hung back. It felt too strange not to acknowledge it.

"What's on your mind, son?" McBride asked, when Percival nervously requested a moment of his time.

That word coming out of his mouth, the memory of what they had done fresh in Percival's mind, made his skin heat up and he ducked his head. "Sorry, sir, it's just – I only wanted to say…" He trailed off, stuttering and fumbling his words.

McBride gave him a kind smile and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Did I upset you?" he asked, brow knit in concern.

"Uh," Percival mumbled, shuffling his feet. "No. I don't think so."

"Good, good," McBride said gravely. He examined Percival carefully, who kept his head down to avoid his probing look. McBride's hand was still on his shoulder.

"Listen – if you want to come round my place again, you're more than welcome."

Percival's head whipped up, blinking in confusion.

"If you want," McBride repeated, his thumb stroking Percival's shoulder lightly.

"Yeah," he said finally, tongue feeling thick in his mouth. There was no question he'd agree; the last thing he wanted was to disappoint this man he so admired. "Yes, I will."

McBride smiled again, in that warm fatherly way that always made Percival feel light and tingly. "Excellent, my boy. Excellent."

 

The following Friday, Percival went to McBride's apartment after training had ended. His palms were sweating as he apparated into the hallway outside his apartment and knocked haltingly on the door. He then shoved his hands deep in his pockets, resisting the urge to fidget further or knock again.

McBride greeted Percival with a warm smile, ushering him inside. A fire was crackling cheerfully in the grate. "Have a drink, my boy," McBride said.

"Uh, whiskey. Please."

McBride poured him a healthy glassful and they took their seats by the fire. McBride shooed away his orange cat, who leapt off the chair and scampered into the other room.

"How goes your training?" McBride asked once they were settled. "Tell me everything."

Percival updated him on everything he'd been learning in his other classes. There were several very difficult potions that he'd eventually mastered after much effort, unlike his fellow trainees who were still struggling.

"Your perseverance in the face of a challenge is well noted, Graves," McBride said, smiling proudly. "The other instructors report the same."

A small smile found itself on Percival's lips. He enjoyed the flush of success after much hard work, and to have that hard work acknowledged for once was even better. He was feeling very warm indeed by the time he finished his whiskey.

"Maybe that's enough for tonight, son," McBride said as Percival set down his empty glass.

Percival cleared his throat, the humiliating memory of his drunkenness returning. But he also thought of what had happened later that night, and he flushed, looking into the fire rather than at McBride.

For the rest of the evening, Percival kept expecting something to happen. McBride would reach over to touch his shoulder and he'd feel a warm swoop of anticipation deep in his gut. But it would only be a friendly touch. Or McBride would wave him over to one of his many bookcases, eager to show him some interesting paragraph or reference. His hand would linger on Percival's back, high up between his shoulder blades, near his neck. Percival was highly aware of the other man's closeness, of his deep, smoky scent. His skin prickled at the contact, but it only ever remained platonic.

Fatherly, even.

"You should probably be on your way," McBride said, late into the night. "We both need proper sleep."

Percival knew when he was being dismissed. He stood to go, but McBride stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"I am proud of you, you know," he said, voice low and sincere.

Percival couldn't respond. He only nodded, blushing, as McBride gave his shoulder a small shake.

Back in his large, empty apartment, Percival sprawled on his bed, chest aching. He had forgotten how much he had longed for his own father to say something like that. Gareth Graves had looked at his only son with a profound disappointment, and, after so many years of being cruelly rebuffed, he'd stopped trying to impress the man. Still, it was hard not to feel the sting no matter that the man was dead and buried. Percival had told himself time and again it didn't matter. That he didn't need anyone's encouragement.

Now he was hearing those words he'd long craved from someone he admired and trusted, and it made him feel warm. Warmth turned to burning heat low in his belly; Percival rolled over, hips grinding briefly against the mattress. He was flush with feeling, giddy long after the effects of the whiskey had worn off. It was impossible not to think of McBride's calloused hands on his body, and he groaned into his pillow, cock hardening in his trousers. 

Self-abuse was a sin, but the urge to commit that grievous sin now was impossible to ignore. He rolled onto his back and tugged open the top button of his trousers, licking his palm eagerly before pushing his hand into his underwear to fondle his hard prick. He stifled his groan of pleasure despite there being no one around to hear. Old habits. His hips stuttered as he shoved his trousers down just enough to take his cock out and stroke it properly. Biting his lower lip hard, he quickly fell into a familiar rhythm, mind racing. 

McBride on top of him, touching him. Mouth on his throat. Percival moaned shakily, imagining it was McBride's hand on his cock and not his own. He thought of the man's breath on his face, and that low, hoarse whisper: _"You're so good, son."_

Percival came all over his stomach with a strangled groan. As his heartbeat returned to normal, that familiar shame crept in as he summoned a handkerchief to mop up the semen cooling unpleasantly on his belly. After spelling the handkerchief clean, he dropped back on his pillows, sighing. He'd always chalked it up to how rich or standoffish he was that kept most people away, but now he wondered if it were something else. 

McBride hadn't seemed eager to repeat their encounter. He probably thought it was a mistake, never to be repeated. And here he was, thinking about McBride acting fatherly towards him, twisting it into something filthy… Clearly he must be some kind of freak.

Miserable, Percival tore off the rest of his clothes and wrapped himself tight in his blankets, curling up around a pillow. 

 

The months wore on; the intensive training program was coming to a close, and the other trainees had long since stopped inviting him out to drink. Percival, however, had been visiting McBride at his home every weekend, even sometimes during the week. He had often dreamed of having a relationship like this, one of mutual respect and affection. Percival was there so often that even McBride's skittish cat Smudge warmed up to him, allowing Percival to scratch under his chin.

All the while, McBride provided Percival with invaluable support and insight. Sometimes the stress of the program bore down on him and he'd long for a way out.

"You've come so far, you've accomplished so much," McBride told him, rubbing his shoulder gently. "It would be foolish to give up now."

Percival knew it was true. More than half of his fellow trainees had dropped out, the pressure too much for them. But Percival would persevere. He always had. Quitting now would be intolerable. But without McBride's support, he wasn't sure he would make it out in one piece.

And through all of that, McBride's touches and affection were never more than fatherly. He seemed almost restrained at times, as though he wanted to let his touch linger and denied himself, but that may have been Percival's desperation playing tricks on him. McBride's care for him made his skin heat up, his heart flutter, his cock twitch eagerly. He knew it was wrong, but that didn't stop the wanting. 

Two weeks out from graduation, the trainees were taken on a mock field mission. There was an obstacle course, magical booty traps, suspects played by veteran aurors they were meant to pursue. A last chance to prove oneself that Percival was determined not to miss out on.

When arrived on the site, Percival couldn't eat the breakfast provided for them. He couldn't stop pacing either, reciting spells and going over defensive maneuvers in his head. He imagined all the ways it could go wrong, and how humiliated he would be. In front of McBride, of all people.

Speaking of McBride… The man strode towards him, smiling warmly. Percival could only offer a weak smile in return.

"How are you feeling?"

"F-fine," Percival stuttered, not feeling fine at all. 

"You'll do brilliantly, I'm sure of it," McBride said, clapping his shoulder.

A familiar warmth blossomed in his chest. He was more determined than ever not to disappoint him.

In no time at all, it was Percival's turn to enter the obstacle course. He would have to chase after an auror acting as a suspect, dodging magical obstacles the whole way, and then finish with a duel. Percival set his jaw hard. On the verge of beginning this most difficult task, Percival actually felt calm. He looked over at McBride, catching his eye. The other man gave him a solemn nod, and Percival felt much better. His hands didn't shake at all.

The first part of the course was a piece of cake. Using wandless magic, he used dust to find the hidden trip wires without setting them off, and administered the healing potion to a "wounded civilian." Then he needed to pursue the suspect through an abandoned building, dodging offensive spells all the while. Heart pounding in his chest with every step, Percival's focus on the task was absolute. He had to listen for the spells being cast, for the changes in air pressure as nonverbal curses were thrown at him. There were a couple close calls, spells whizzing past him close enough to singe his hair, one grazing his cheek and leaving a burn. 

The house led to a platform that was an obvious space for the duel to take place, the auror he was up against already in position. Percival took a strong stance and cast a stunning spell without hesitation. The auror, a stranger to him whose casting style he didn't know, deflected it, and then the duel was on in earnest. Percival thought of everything McBride had taught him, never vocalizing a spell, always moving, deflecting and casting with equal fervor. 

Percival was out of breath from running up the stairs of the house, evading spells and traps. He had been trying to stun the auror for what felt like hours, but the man wasn't making it easy for him. He dodged another spell handily, and Percival was nearly disarmed by a well-placed Expelliarmus. Percival thought wildly about his first day of training, how he'd pushed himself too far. He was wheezing, a sharp stitch in his side. He thought of McBride, how he was constantly pushing him to improve, to do better.

Rashly, Percival dropped his wand arm. Knowing the man was expecting another volley of wand-assisted attacks, Percival instead used his empty hand to cast nonverbally, shoving the man backward. Unprepared, the auror was caught off-guard and stumbled, arms wheeling, as Percival handily cast a stunning spell. The auror was unconscious before he hit the ground.

Dizzy with triumph, Percival grinned to himself. Aurors who had been watching hidden on the sidelines began to applaud.

"Well done, Graves!"

"Bravo!"

The auror he had defeated was revived and stood up, dusty and a little worse for wear, to shake Percival's hand. "Excellent work, Graves. Stellar use of wandless magic."

Percival couldn't stop smiling. He'd actually managed to complete the course, and even seemed to have done rather well.

McBride was walking toward him, a broad grin on his face. "Wonderful, just wonderful. I think I'll be calling you Auror Graves in no time." He pulled Percival into a firm hug, slapping him on the back. Percival could feel his cheeks flushing. 

At the end of the day, the trainees planned on going to the pub in order to celebrate those who had passed the course and commiserate with those who hadn't. They had explicitly invited Percival, since he had passed with flying colors after all, but he couldn't say yes.

"You should celebrate with them," McBride said, at his side.

"I thought I could celebrate with you," Percival said, success making him impulsive.

McBride worried his lip. 

Percival looking away. "If you don't want to though..."

"It would be my pleasure," McBride said quickly. "We'll have a drink."

Percival couldn't think of a place he'd rather be when he had good news to celebrate. McBride's apartment had become something like a second home, far more comfortable and cozy than his own apartment, with Smudge greeting them with a disgruntled meow as they apparated in.

"Hold your horses, hold your horses," McBride grumbled as he went about feeding his cat while Percival poured them both drinks. When McBride emerged from the kitchen, he toasted Percival with his tumbler of scotch. "To you, Graves. Soon to be Auror Graves."

Percival flushed in pleasure at the sound of it, clinking his glass against McBride's. They ordered in a fine meal to indulge in while Percival recounted every move he'd made in the obstacle course. Their discussion continued on throughout several glasses of scotch apiece until Percival was feeling very warm, high on his victory and the liquor and McBride's company.

"It's been a long day," McBride announced when it was well past midnight.

"Are you kicking me out?" Percival tried for a light tone but the words still came out disappointed.

"We both need sleep." McBride stood up, waving his hand to send their drink glasses floating to the kitchen. 

"Wait," Percival said, throat tight as he grabbed McBride's wrist.

"Percival –"

"Please," was all Percival said, voice barely above a whisper.

McBride made a movement as if to break his grip, only to touch Percival's face with his free hand instead. "What do you think you're asking for, boy?"

"I –" Percival swallowed thickly as he let go of McBride's wrist, considering the question. What was he asking for? Easier to say what he didn't want – to leave. To spend another night alone. His hands balled into fists. What did he want? He… he wanted…

He couldn't say it, but that didn't stop some of the determination he'd felt on the obstacle course from thrumming through his scotch-heavy blood. He lifted his head to face McBride.

Something in McBride seemed to break. Taking Percival firmly by the arm, he led him into the bedroom. When he lit the lamps with flicks of his hands, Percival was strongly reminded of his first night here. His cock was already half-hard in his trousers.

McBride held Percival roughly by the shoulders and kissed him hard on the mouth. Percival moaned, mouth opening at once as McBride's stubbled skin scraped against his. He was trembling, overwhelmed as McBride backed him onto the bed. He fell onto the thick quilt, shaky as sweat broke out over his body. McBride seemed to loom over him, unbuttoning his shirt, and Percival followed suit with shaking fingers until McBride stopped him.

"Let me," he said gruffly.

Like that first night, he undressed Percival with apparent ease and composure. Percival moved with him, lifting his hips up as he tugged off his trousers, twisting into the touch as his hands skimmed Percival's sides. His body was one raw nerve, exquisitely sensitive and hot as dragon fire. Then he was naked, cock hard and throbbing as McBride stood above him, slowly removing his own clothes.

"You're always so worried about doing your best," he muttered, voice rough. "Are you going to do your best for me?"

Percival nearly suppressed an audible moan at those words. He nodded wildly.

"Turn over, son."

He trembled as he complied, head spinning, as McBride's hands slid over his hips to lightly brush his cheeks. The months of training had left Percival broader and less scrawny, his muscles more defined. The light touches felt like bonfire sparks against his skin, and he clutched at the bed sheets, letting out a shuddering moan.

"Good boy," McBride mumbled under his breath, and Percival gasped, then bit his lip.

He heard a whispered spell, then felt fingers touching him, coated in what felt like lubricant. Slick and cool, McBride's fingers spread Percival's cheeks and then dipped between them to slide over his hole. Despite the curiosity seizing him at times, Percival had never even touched himself there, his own fear of sin keeping him away. McBride pressed one blunt finger in, and Percival grit his teeth at the sudden stretch.

"You're doing well, my boy," McBride said soothingly, and Percival whined, hole clenching around the thick intrusion.

"Please, more," Percival moaned, as McBride continued to tease him with just the one digit. 

There was a low chuckled from McBride, and then he roughly pushed another finger in, screwing deeper. Percival grunted, tears in his eyes from the unfamiliar pain, the powerful sensations. But he was determined to take more.

"Please – please –" he stuttered, barely able to articulate himself, hips rocking him back against McBride's hand.

"What do you want, son?"

"I want – please, just fuck me." To his own ears, his voice sounded strained, almost broken.

McBride's fingers withdrew so suddenly that Percival gasped at the pain. But then something else bumped against his hole, something much bigger.

"Is this what you want, my boy?"

"Yes, please, Mercy Lewis –"

And then McBride was pushing into him, his cock far thicker than two fingers had been, and Percival couldn't help but squirm, twisting against the intrusion. McBride held him steady with a hand on his shoulder blades, nearly pinning him to the bed the way he had to the mat in the gym, months ago. There were tears on Percival's cheeks; he was barely able to get used to the girth before McBride pulled out again and then pushed back in. Harder.

The pain was incredible, but satisfying the same way that running himself to exhaustion was, and soon Percival was arching back for more. Every time McBride pushed in, his cock brushed something inside Percival's body that made Percival see stars. He moaned with every thrust, incoherent, hands trembling as he fisted the sheets helplessly.

"You feel so good," McBride grunted, and Percival groaned at the compliment.

McBride fucked him relentlessly. Percival was on fire, pain and pleasure flaring together as one flame. McBride kept gripping Percival's shoulder in one hand, his hip in the other. But as his pace continued, his hand slid over Percival's hip to his front, closing around his hard, leaking cock. Percival howled, feeling like he was going to implode. He'd never felt such potent pleasure in his life.

"You gonna come, boy?" McBride said in his ear, a low growl that made him whimper. "You gonna come on my cock?"

He had no choice. He was boneless, shaking, as McBride pounded his ass so hard that he didn't think he'd be able to sit right for days. The man's gravelly voice whispering to him, "That's right, son," was too much.

Percival came so hard he might have blacked out for an instant. Blinking, he discovered himself planted face-down in the bed. He must've fallen forward, his elbows unable to support his upper body. There was come smeared on his stomach, sticky and thick, as McBride hefted him up by the hips in order to keep fucking him. Almost unbearably sensitive yet too weak to protest, he couldn't do anything but moan weakly and take it, relishing every stab of pleasure heightened to the point of pain.

But it wasn't long before McBride came with a guttural grunt, thrusting deeply one last time and squeezing Percival's hips hard enough to bruise. He panted, taking a moment to recover before withdrawing slowly. Percival whined at the slow drag on extremely tender skin, but then McBride was out, collapsing on the bed beside him. 

Sore, exhausted, Percival rolled over onto his side, wincing at all his skin smarting. McBride stuffed a pillow behind his head and reached out gently to brush the hair off of Percival's forehead.

"Did I hurt you badly?" he muttered, brow furrowed.

"I don't think so."

"I probably shouldn't have done that."

Percival nodded. He probably shouldn't have, not that that stopped McBride from continuing to stroke his hair, or from tugging up the quilt to cover him when he started to shiver. He didn't think he'd ever felt so loved.

But at the same time, he wasn't sure what that even meant.


End file.
